


a tacit understanding

by CoraClavia



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraClavia/pseuds/CoraClavia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hears her footsteps stop, then turn and clip back to him, and he has the distinct premonition that Inspector Thatcher is actually about to kill him. Missing scene for 2x15, Body Language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tacit understanding

**Author's Note:**

> Episode insert for 2x15, Body Language. Set right after Thatcher observes an exotic dancer basically groping Fraser as he stands sentry duty outside the consulate. Because it was just last episode they did some extensive tongue-based teamwork, and really, that’s just not cool. Meg Thatcher should be the only one sticking her hand in his uniform.

Ida trips off merrily, leaving Fraser standing stock-still before a distinctly unamused inspector, who’s just watched the woman get extremely inappropriate with him.

She doesn’t say anything, just presses her lips together and stalks toward the front door. Fraser lets out a breath.

“Oh, dear.”

He hears her footsteps stop, then turn and clip back to him, and he has the distinct premonition that Inspector Thatcher is actually about to kill him.

“Constable. Did I hear you say something?”

He blinks several times, not sure if he will get in more trouble for speaking to answer her, or for remaining silent and not answering. Either way, this most likely will not end well for him.

“I asked you a question, Constable Fraser. I expect to be answered.”

She’s radiating fury, her face flushed, and he swallows. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“In my office. Now.”

“I - but - sir, I’m in the middle of -”

“I doubt we’re in danger of attack at the moment, Constable. And given that my one guard seems preoccupied with letting young women fondle him in public, I’ll chance it.”

He bites back his protests (she was not _fondling_ him) and follows Thatcher into the consulate, up the stairs, where he stands firmly at attention in front of her desk, hat under his arm, and braces himself.

Except she doesn’t say anything.

She just stares at him. Arms folded over her chest, her dark eyes flashing. He anticipates the worst. Worse than the day she suspended him. Worse than the day she fired him.

But now it’s a mess, because he vividly remembers the scent of her hair and the way her eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he kissed her.

He fights back that particular memory, because it’s certainly not the right thing to be thinking about at the moment.

“So what is it this time, Constable?”

And as usual, she’s got him off-balance with one sentence. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Surely there’s some story. Fable. Epic. Saga. Something that starts with ‘once upon a time among the Inuit’ and ends with a reasonable explanation for the spectacle I just witnessed.”

She spits out the words, her voice venomous, and Fraser notes the flush in her cheeks. She’s been annoyed with him before, but this?

This seems personal.

She’s beautiful when she’s angry.

“I comprehend your sarcasm, sir, and I apologize for what I’m sure appeared to be -”

“It is completely inappropriate for you to parade young women with no inhibitions or respect for public decency in front of a Canadian government building,” she all but hisses, apparently tired of his faltering attempts to placate her. “I’m still waiting for you to give me a single good reason I shouldn’t have you transferred straight back to the Yukon.”

“Sir -”

“- by _catapult_.”

She’s bitterly angry, and Fraser has a sudden flash of memory - a young female wolf caught in a poacher’s trap. The young wolf had lain there, frightened, hungry, so terrified that she’d snapped viciously when Fraser had tried to help.

And it’s really, really not helping that the inspector smells so good.

“I’m very sorry, sir. I did not ask her to come here. She completely misunderstood what I only intended as fraternal kindness. I considered physically removing her, but was worried she might cause a scene, and therefore I chose to simply wait until she left. I apologize for not handling the situation better, and for any embarrassment I have caused you and the embassy.”

Fraser finally shuts himself up - he knows she gets more irritated the longer he talks - and grits his teeth, awaiting his fate.

He wonders if it would be better to simply say _You’re the only one I’ve been kissing, ma’am_.

* * *

 

Meg knows she’s being unreasonable.

For once, his explanation holds water. He’s Fraser. He’s stupidly polite to everyone. Of course this little hussy from who-knows-where mistook it for romantic interest.

“Is this the truth, Fraser?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She can see it in his eyes. Constable Friendly-To-Everyone is telling the truth.

Why is she so furious at him?

“So this young woman acted entirely without your consent?”

“Inspector, I never sought her advances. I did not welcome them when she offered them.” He surprises her: he looks her straight in the eye. “I react very differently, ma’am, when a woman’s advances are welcome.”

Meg starts. Loses whatever she was about to say. Because she knows exactly what he’s talking about. It happened on a train, not on the sidewalk just outside. And she can’t stop thinking about it.

“Welcome?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He licks his lips absently, and her face goes hot. “I try to be very clear in my - desires.”

His voice is very low, intimate, and it’s doing things to her. She doesn’t need to be thinking about Benton Fraser and desires.

“And if those - advances - are welcome?”

He fixes her with a keen look, his eyes deep, deep blue.

“I reciprocate, ma’am.”

With his lips and tongue and teeth and hands.

She should stop talking, but she’s so lost in the vivid memory that she almost doesn’t know she’s speaking. “You - you only - reciprocate - if you mean it?”

“Yes.” His gaze drops to her mouth for a moment. “It’s not something I take lightly.”

“You don’t?”

“I believe a woman should know how I feel about her, ma’am.”

“Do you think she does?”

“I hope so.” A little smile plays at his lips, and Meg lets out a breath. “But I suppose I’d have to ask her.”

The flare of what she grudgingly admits was jealousy has died down, and she can’t even muster up anger. Her heart is fluttering in her chest.

Because they don’t talk about it.

But now they are.

* * *

 

He holds his breath, but the fury has drained out of her. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright, and she looks like she’s trying very hard not to smile.

She understands.

“You may return to your post, Constable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the future, I expect my consulate to remain free of young woman attempting to undress you.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

He nods, executing a smart about-face and exiting her office.

He doesn’t turn around, but he thinks she might be smiling.

* * *

 

Meg watches him leave, trying to calm her burning cheeks, her quick pulse. She can’t stop smiling.

Looks like she’s the only woman Fraser’s been kissing recently, after all.

  
  
  
  



End file.
